Pencil Sketch
by Lukoni
Summary: Gibbs hides pain well. But one member of his team just can't help sticking his nose into other people's business.


**Pencil****Sketch**

A brittle wind was rising off the river and the sun, lurking behind a silver gray shield of clouds, was getting closer to the horizon. Special Agent Gibbs didn't shiver at the onslaught. He was good at not showing pain, as any marine should be. He was fine right where he was. As long as he didn't move he wouldn't betray himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw at last what he'd been waiting for – his medical examiner getting the stretcher out to take the body back to the morgue. He held up an apologetic finger to the witness he was interviewing and bellowed "McGee!"

The young agent trotted up to him, his cheeks reddened in the cold. "You finished shooting the scene?" Gibbs asked him.

"Yes, Boss."

"Good. Collect the evidence that's ready and head back with Ducky."

"But the sketches aren't done."

"I'll finish 'em."

"You…?" Gibbs raised a sardonic eyebrow at his inquisitive agent. "That's not to say, um, that you couldn't, um, do it, I mean, of course you can do sketches, but you never…"

"I _said_ I'll finish 'em. Leave your pad with me and go."

"Are you gonna have enough light, Boss?"

"You calling me blind, now, McGee?"

"No! No, of course not, it's just, the sun is going down and you are busy interviewing and…"

"Last witness. Go." McGee looked like he was about to protest again, but Gibbs glared him into silence. With a mumbled "Yes, Boss," McGee handed over his sketch pad and went to make sure he left behind enough bags for the items still waiting to be sketched in.

"He's persistent, I'll give him that," the witness observed. Gibbs gave her his trademark half-smile.

"That how I train 'em." He took a moment to confirm that his orders were being followed, then turned his attention back to Mrs. Caldwell.

"So, you said Jasper started barking when you were…"

"Just around that bend," she continued, pointing to a path through the woods. Gibbs followed her recitation by rote, his investigator's brain on autopilot, while the rest of him focused on keeping upright.

He and DiNozzo had chased the suspect a good half mile over rough and frozen terrain. There was a time when that would have been a cakewalk. He would hardly have been breathing hard. But his body had a lot of miles on it now, more than he was willing to admit. Tonight, it seemed, his body had decided on full scale mutiny. After the all out run, and the flying tackle, and the half-mile walk back to the crime scene with suspect in tow, Gibbs's knee was complaining like a rich boy at boot camp.

That, in itself, wasn't unusual. The thing had been pretty sketchy since the explosion in Kuwait, but so far he'd managed to show it who's boss. Today was different. As he began questioning witnesses he noticed it stiffening. To avoid Tony's penetrating eye, he sent him back with the prisoner straight away. By the second interview, he found he couldn't bend it. Not just that it hurt to bend, it simply wouldn't respond to any commands he was giving it. He had Ziva impound the suspect's car and accompany it back to the evidence garage. That left McGee, who was too busy photographing and tagging to pay much attention to his boss.

At last the Medical Examiner's van pulled away, and he could breathe a sigh of relief. It was probably unreasonable to try and hide it. He could hear Kate's voice in his head saying, "No one expects you to be Superman, Gibbs." Just himself. He hated this. This getting old crap. He didn't care about the gray hair or the wrinkles around the eyes. But the loss of strength, of speed, of recuperation. Not to be able to do the things he'd always been able to do hurt more than he could ever have dreamed. It was like something was eating away at who he was.

"And then I found those two boys looking at the body," concluded Mrs. Caldwell. Gibbs made a few last notes on his pad.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Caldwell. We'll be in touch if we need a formal affidavit."

"I'd be glad to, Agent Gibbs." She gave a light tug on the leash in her hand. "Come on, Jasper. Time to get you some supper." Looking back over her shoulder, she said, "You should get yourself inside, like your agents – this cold will eat into your bones."

"Will do, ma'am." He smiled politely and waited for her to return to the trail. He tried to ignore the knowing look of sad camaraderie in her eyes, the one that said, _Yes, __I, __too, __know__ what __it__'__s __like__ to __get __old, __but __it__'__s__ not __as __bad__ as __you __fear __it __will __be_. He hated that look almost as much as the glances of pity and subtle attempts at coddling his team would throw at him if they could see him in this state. Which is exactly why he'd sent them away. With any luck, they will have wrapped up for the night by the time he got back to the Yard, and he'd only have to avoid Ducky, which wasn't hard when the ME was elbow deep in an autopsy.

Finally alone, he pivoted on his good leg so he was back facing the crime scene. The wind ruffled the frosty grass except where the body had matted it down. He was beginning to regret telling McGee to go without finishing the sketches, since he wasn't really in any sort of shape to run a measuring tape. "Suck it up, Marine," he muttered to himself. _This __was __your __own __damn __idea. _Flipping open the sketchbook, he was relieved to find only one remained to be completed, and that more than half done. All the long measurements were taken care of.

He hauled himself around as best he could, with only a few ungainly hops, mostly dragging his leg around like a useless piece of lumber. The knee throbbed when he stood on it, but it was better than the agonizing pain that shot through it when he shifted his weight just right.

Half an hour saw the sketch finished, then there was the rather awkward ballet of him bagging the last few pieces of evidence and picking up all the numbered tags that littered the grass around where the body had lain. With a final huff, he snagged #36 and stood in the near dark to gauge the distance to his car. It seemed like miles away, even though it was only 200 yards at best. Conjuring up the voice of his drill sergeant in his head, Gibbs made his way across the field at a pace that even Ducky's mother could beat.

His face was grim and slightly beaded with sweat by the time he made it to his car. Just as he was fishing his keys from his pocket, the driver door opened and a familiar face popped up.

"DiNozzo!" he shouted, aborting his attempt to pull his weapon.

"Hey, boss."

"I told you to go back to the office!"

"I did. And so did Ziva. And so did McGee. And so did Ducky and Palmer. But no Bossman. Kind of unusual, you've got to admit."

Gibbs didn't deign to answer. Instead he drew on all his reserves to take a normal step toward the car.

"Uh uh uh, Boss." DiNozzo blocked his path. "I'm not letting you drive anywhere with that knee."

The two men stared at each other, two mountain goats of stubborn facing off in the wilderness. Gibbs shifted his balance to try to shove past him, when pain shot up his thigh and down to his ankle. He cursed under his breath and felt himself going down against his will, baggies tumbling and plastic numbers clattering to the pavement. Before he could follow their lead, however, two strong arms were around him, hauling him up with ease.

"Like I said, you're not driving anywhere. Okay, boss?" Gibbs gripped Tony's shoulder tightly as he regained his balance, his jaw clenched not just with pain but with indignation, with frustration, and just a little exhaustion. Another voice made its presence known, one of the many ghosts who kept him company. _Oh, __Jethro, _came Shannon's exasperated laugh. He remembered her coming into the nursery one day and finding him up to his elbows in shit and baby powder with a slightly mangled fresh diaper clutched between his teeth. She had laughed till she cried. _Jethro, __you__'__ve __got __to __learn __to__ ask __for __help__ once __in __a__ while._

Gibbs grunted as he hopped back a little from his senior agent. (_Babysitter_, his own, disgruntled voice supplied.) "Fine," he said, shoving the sketch pad at him. He made his way to the passenger side and climbed in while Tony stowed the gear in the back. With his seatbelt buckled, he allowed himself five seconds to close his eyes and just appreciate being off his feet. And picture the glass of bourbon he would have when he got home. The distinct lack of Tony getting into the driver's seat prompted Gibbs to look around. He found his senior field agent perched on the edge of the backseat looking at the sketchpad with a face that appeared… fond. Gibbs stared expectantly at his bent head.

"I forgot how good you are at this," Tony offered.

"It's a sketch, DiNozzo."

"You added the dog tracks." Tony smiled, turning a couple of pages. "To McGee's too. I never even saw them."

"What the hell have I been training you for all these years if you can't even recognize tracks at a crime scene?" Tony just grinned and snapped the pad shut. Gibbs scowled, trying to figure out if he'd just been played, as Tony settled in behind the wheel. They pulled out onto the parkway in silence, the stream of headlights providing an illusion of warmth.

"So how long were you sitting there watching me drag my ass all over that damned field?"

"Just a few minutes. I thought about getting out to help, but you looked like you had it under control. Besides, my knee is really sore after that run. You know, I'm not as young as I used to be and …" Gibbs lightly smacked him on the back of the head. Tony just laughed. Oh yeah, Gibbs was being played like a prized fiddle. But he found he didn't mind. Things felt _normal_ again. For now. It was enough.


End file.
